


Small Comforts

by Pholo



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Fluff, Light Hurt/Comfort, M/M, hair petting, save me from myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 16:53:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10416717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pholo/pseuds/Pholo
Summary: Keith ruffles Shiro’s hair one day. It’s an accident, of course. Shiro makes a pun, and Keith reaches over, high on the kind of angry fondness that can only come of bad wordplay, and shakes his fingers through Shiro’s hair.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hanta96 (hanta96draw.tumblr.com) made me wanna’ take a break from angst and write some gosh darn fluff! This drabble is in response to their pic: http://mighty-trash.tumblr.com/post/158727190473/hanta96draw-made-me-wanna-take-a-break-from

Keith ruffles Shiro’s hair one day. It’s an accident, of course. Shiro makes a pun, and Keith reaches over, high on the kind of angry fondness that can only come of bad wordplay, and shakes his fingers through Shiro’s hair.

It takes a while to realize, since at the time Keith had been too mortified to process any sensation beyond the gunfire staccato of his own heartbeat—but later, as Keith lies awake and alone on his bed, he remembers how Shiro had drooped under his hand. Keith holds up his right hand and stares at his palm. The stale air of the room passes between his fingers. He sighs.  

It happens again, a week later.

Shiro and Pidge, back from a visit to an uncharted planet, emerge from their lions plastered with leaves and sticks. It takes a moment for the rest of team Voltron to even recognize them under the greenery. “Decontamination unit, now!” Allura cries—and team Voltron sprays away the leaf litter under a barrage of Altean power-hoses.

Despite the space-grade shower, bits and pieces of debris cling to Pidge and Shiro’s clothes like crumbs to a coat pocket. Intermittently, crew members pause to pick stray twigs out from someone’s shirt collar; their shoes; their hair. Keith watches Shiro walk around with a clump of shredded leaves over his ear for an hour before he snaps. “Stop,” Keith says, as they walk down the hall. “You’ve still got leaves in your hair.”

“It's really fine,” Shiro says. He stops anyway, because Keith told him to. Keith circles around to Shiro's back. He dusts the leaf-bits out of Shiro's hair, and Shiro relaxes under Keith’s hand. Keith swears he can feel Shiro’s stress seep out under his fingers.

Keith brushes the last pinprick of leaf-confetti out of Shiro's hair. He steps back. The tenseness returns to Shiro's shoulders.

“Thanks,” Shiro says, and turns to Keith. He rubs the back of his neck.

Keith shrugs at him.

“No problem.”

 

There’s no real reason for it; no obvious trigger. One day Shiro can sleep—and then suddenly he can’t.

The team doesn’t notice for a while, mostly because Shiro has a masters degree in stoicism and would rather eat a pipe bomb than talk about his problems. Then the bags start to darken under his eyes. He flickers out mid-conversation, like a rusty satellite. His movements drag, and once he trips on his way to the main deck.

Team Voltron assembles. They offer Shiro tricks and tips. Alien herbs. They move Shiro’s bed; fluff his pillows. Pidge makes Shiro a white noise generator. Hunk bakes him potassium-heavy snacks. Allura coaches him on meditation.

Nothings works. Shiro catnaps from time to time, but a good night’s sleep remains elusive. The team can't fight Zarkon with Shiro dead on his feet—and Keith’s heart hurts every time he gets a glance at Shiro, slumped and miserable out of the corner of his eye. At last Keith takes him aside and asks, “Would petting your hair help?”

Shiro stares at Keith like he’s grown a second head. Keith doesn’t skirt around uncomfortable topics—but this? Keith’s on private property, now. He feels his face start to redden. Keith backtracks: “I mean—sorry. It’s stupid, I know, but since you've—”

“No,” Shiro says. “That's—that sounds nice, actually.” He coughs. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

The awkwardness follows them to Shiro’s room. It lingers, heavy and sour, as Keith and Shiro arrange themselves on Shiro’s bed. Keith sits cross-legged; slowly, like a stray animal, Shiro lowers his head onto Keith’s knee. He shuffles against the blankets once, then stills.

Keith waits for some kind of signal. When none comes, he lowers his hand to Shiro’s scalp.

The moment Keith’s fingers meet Shiro’s hair, Shiro's whole body slackens. The air feels lighter suddenly.

“This all right?” Keith asks, as he runs his fingers back and forth through Shiro’s hair.

Shiro’s eyes flit closed. He lets Keith pet him for a while, on the verge of a reply, before he murmurs—“Thank you.” It’s tender but stunted, like Shiro means to say more but can’t find the words.

Keith smiles. He finds the courage to lay his free hand on Shiro’s.

Shiro falls asleep with his fingers through Keith’s.

**Author's Note:**

> Fic requests are open on my Tumblr! mighty-trash.tumblr.com


End file.
